 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
JOHN ESTEN COOKE.
Born at Winchester, Virginia, in 1830. Was educated at the
University of Virginia. Practiced law. Served as a staff officer
in the Confederate Army. Achieved distinction as a novelist and
historian. "Surry of Eagle's Nest" is the most famous of his
novels. He died in 1886, and is buried near Berryville, Virginia.
His oldest brother, Philip Pendleton Cooke, was the author of
the well known song, "Florence Vane."
THE BAND IN THE PINES.
Oh, band in the pine-wood cease!
Cease with your splendid call;
The living are brave and noble,
But the dead were bravest of all!
Cease with your splendid call;
The living are brave and noble,
But the dead were bravest of all!
They throng to the martial summons,
To the loud triumphant strain;
And the dear bright eyes of long dead friends
Come to the heart again.
To the loud triumphant strain;
And the dear bright eyes of long dead friends
Come to the heart again.
They come with the ringing bugle,
And the deep drum's mellow roar;
Till the soul is faint with longing
For the hands we clasp no more!
And the deep drum's mellow roar;
Till the soul is faint with longing
For the hands we clasp no more!
Oh, band in the pine-wood cease!
Or the heart will melt in tears,
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,
And the voices of old years!
Or the heart will melt in tears,
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,
And the voices of old years!
THE BROKEN MUG.
40
My mug is broken, my heart is sad!
What woes can Fate still hold in store?
The friend I cherished a thousand days
Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
I'll see my mug no more!
What woes can Fate still hold in store?
The friend I cherished a thousand days
Is smashed to pieces on the floor!
Is shattered and to Limbo gone,
I'll see my mug no more!
Relic it was of joyous hours,
Whose golden memories still allure—
When coffee made of rye we drank,
And gray was all the dress we wore!
When we were paid some cents a month,
But never asked for more!
Whose golden memories still allure—
When coffee made of rye we drank,
And gray was all the dress we wore!
When we were paid some cents a month,
But never asked for more!
In marches long, by day and night,
In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back,
This faithful comrade still I bore—
This old companion, true and tried,
I'll never carry more!
In raids, hot charges, shocks of war,
Strapped on the saddle at my back,
This faithful comrade still I bore—
This old companion, true and tried,
I'll never carry more!
41
From the Rapidan to Gettysburg—
"Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before—
This friend went with the cavalry,
And heard the jarring cannon roar
In front of Cemetery Hill—
Good heavens! how they did roar!
"Hard bread" behind, "sour krout" before—
This friend went with the cavalry,
And heard the jarring cannon roar
In front of Cemetery Hill—
Good heavens! how they did roar!
Then back again, the foe behind,
Back to the "Old Virginia shore"—
Some dead and wounded left—some holes
In flags, the sullen "graybacks" bore;
This mug had made the great campaign,
And we'd have gone once more!
Back to the "Old Virginia shore"—
Some dead and wounded left—some holes
In flags, the sullen "graybacks" bore;
This mug had made the great campaign,
And we'd have gone once more!
Alas! we never went again;
The red-cross banner, slow but sure,
"Fell back"—we bade to sour krout
(Like the lover of Lenore)
A long, sad, lingering farewell—
To taste its joys no more.
The red-cross banner, slow but sure,
"Fell back"—we bade to sour krout
(Like the lover of Lenore)
A long, sad, lingering farewell—
To taste its joys no more.
But still we fought, and ate hard bread,
Or starved—good friend, our woes deplore!
And still this faithful friend remained—
Or starved—good friend, our woes deplore!
And still this faithful friend remained—
42
Riding behind me as before—
The friend on march, in bivouac,
When others were no more.
The friend on march, in bivouac,
When others were no more.
How oft we drove the horsemen blue
In summer bright or winter frore!
How oft before the Southern charge
Through field and wood the "blue-birds" tore!
I'm "harmonized," but long to hear
The bugles ring once more.
In summer bright or winter frore!
How oft before the Southern charge
Through field and wood the "blue-birds" tore!
I'm "harmonized," but long to hear
The bugles ring once more.
O, yes! we're all "fraternal" now,
Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure;
Congress will "reconstruct" us soon—
But no gray people on that floor!
I'm harmonized—"so-called"—but long
To see those times once more!
Purged of our sins, we're clean and pure;
Congress will "reconstruct" us soon—
But no gray people on that floor!
I'm harmonized—"so-called"—but long
To see those times once more!
Gay days! the sun was brighter then,
And we were happy, though so poor!
That past comes back as I behold
My shattered friend upon the floor—
My splintered, useless, ruined mug,
From which I'll drink no more.
And we were happy, though so poor!
That past comes back as I behold
My shattered friend upon the floor—
My splintered, useless, ruined mug,
From which I'll drink no more.
43
How many lips I'll love for aye,
While heart and memory endure,
Have touched this broken cup and laughed—
How they did laugh!—in days of yore!
Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream"
If they had been no more!
While heart and memory endure,
Have touched this broken cup and laughed—
How they did laugh!—in days of yore!
Those days we'd call "a beauteous dream"
If they had been no more!
Dear comrades, dead this many a day,
I see you weltering in your gore
After those days, amid the pines,
On the Rappahannock shore!
When the joy of life was much to me,
But your warm hearts were more!
I see you weltering in your gore
After those days, amid the pines,
On the Rappahannock shore!
When the joy of life was much to me,
But your warm hearts were more!
Yours was the grand heroic nerve
That laughs amid the storm of war—
Souls that "loved much" your native land,
Who fought and died therefor!
You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,
Your blood—you had no more!
That laughs amid the storm of war—
Souls that "loved much" your native land,
Who fought and died therefor!
You gave your youth, your brains, your arms,
Your blood—you had no more!
You lived and died true to your flag,
And now your wounds are healed—but sore
Are many hearts that think of you,
And now your wounds are healed—but sore
Are many hearts that think of you,
44
Where you have "gone before."
Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms—
They are "whole" forevermore!
Peace, comrade! God bound up those forms—
They are "whole" forevermore!
Those lips this broken vessel touched,
His, too!—the man we all adore—
That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more—
Whose plume will float amid the storm
Of battle nevermore!
His, too!—the man we all adore—
That cavalier of cavaliers,
Whose voice will ring no more—
Whose plume will float amid the storm
Of battle nevermore!
Not on this idle page I write
That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart! peace! foolish pen,
Hush! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
His bugle sounds no more!
That name of names, shrined in the core
Of every heart! peace! foolish pen,
Hush! words so cold and poor!
His sword is rust; the blue eyes dust,
His bugle sounds no more!
Never was cavalier like ours!
Not Rupert in the years before!
And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er,
His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!
Not Rupert in the years before!
And when his stern, hard work was done,
His griefs, joys, battles o'er,
His mighty spirit rode the storm,
And led his men once more!
45
He lies beneath his native sod,
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar;
He recks not—charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!
Where violets spring, or frost is hoar;
He recks not—charging squadrons watch
His raven plume no more!
That smile we'll see, that voice we'll hear,
That hand we'll touch no more!
My foolish mirth is quenched in tears:
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
That find their use no more—
Things glorious once, now trodden down—
That makes us smile no more!
Poor fragments strewed upon the floor,
Ye are the types of nobler things
That find their use no more—
Things glorious once, now trodden down—
That makes us smile no more!
Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts—
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, o'erwhelmed, we struggled still—
Bread failed—we fought no more!
Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure,
Beating his wings against the bars
The prisoned eagle tried to soar!
Outmatched, o'erwhelmed, we struggled still—
Bread failed—we fought no more!
Lies in the dust the shattered staff
That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
That bore aloft on sea and shore,
That blazing flag, amid the storm!
46
And none are now so poor,
So poor to do it reverence,
Now when it flames no more!
So poor to do it reverence,
Now when it flames no more!
But it is glorious in the dust,
Sacred till time shall be no more:
Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn—
The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!
Furl the great flag—hide cross and star,
Thrust into darkness star and bar,
But look! across the ages far
It flames forevermore!
Sacred till time shall be no more:
Spare it, fierce editors! your scorn—
The dread "Rebellion's" o'er!
Furl the great flag—hide cross and star,
Thrust into darkness star and bar,
But look! across the ages far
It flames forevermore!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |